Weekly Drabble Project
by Ha-Hee Prime
Summary: One short story per week, each according to assigned parameters. Not even I have any idea what kinds of things will end up in here. So far we have some TF:Prime, some G1 'Structies, OOC Prime, letters from Elita, violent death, pranking...
1. Chapter 1

Over on the Comics in Disguise Forum, we've been doing a weekly drabble project. At first, I didn't think I'd be writing things that were good enough to post here. But overall, they haven't been too bad. And one or two have been good enough to be given stand-alone story status (I love you, Halfback! *sniff*) So here you go: a new drabble once a week, more or less.

-

**Week One**

Characters: Megatron, Cliffjumper

Must include the phrase, "Hiding under Cliffjumper"

A/N: I may never quite get over the shock of Cliff's death in the new TF: Prime series. But even so, this turned out much more whiny than I'd intended. (I'd wanted a more starry-eyed approach.) But I promised myself I wouldn't get too hung up on how these came out.

**In His Shadow.**

Read-Only File 2-00053/AF

He exploded onto the scene three years ago. I suppose I should have known even then that he was going to be my hero. But, well, you know how it is. It's hard to idolize someone who treats you like a bumbling protoform all the time. Maybe you understand a little of what that's like. I know you want the others to take you more seriously. They don't mean it, I suppose; and there doesn't seem to be much more we can do to change their minds. We'll always be the kids in the crew, you and me; and, well, I don't know about you, Raf, but whenever I try to prove them wrong, it always seems like I end up proving them _right_ instead...

I was the last bot to see Megatron as he left Earth – you know, _before_. I saw his contrail rising out of the atmosphere as I lay like a coward, hiding under Cliffjumper, legs shot off again...

I had only meant to get some useful information. You know, to see the others' optics light up as they realized what I'd brought them; to have Prime tell me I'd done well...

But I guess I got too close. Or maybe it was my usual dumb luck. I'd assume that Primus hates me, if I didn't always somehow make it out of all the problems I get myself into...

I'd detected Megatron's signature – It was never hard to miss – and come up on him and Soundwave muttering together. Megatron muttering is never a good thing. Proclaiming is ok – you know what he's up to. But muttering means something so serious he's even a little afraid of it...

I'd heard them say a lot of things I didn't understand, about space and maps and Unicron. I inched a little bit closer in order to hear better; but I guess Soundwave must have spotted me, because all of a sudden he held up a hand to stop Megatron. And you don't stop Megatron in mid-speech unless you're sure it's worth it.

I didn't want to call for backup. I wasn't even supposed top be out alone. But I'm a _scout_. I'm _supposed_ to go out alone! I'm supposed to be _gutsy_. But my SOS-signal went off automatically when the first shot took off my legs...

I was lying on the ground with Megatron's fusion cannon in my face, with Soundwave recording the moment for eternity... and who do you suppose was the bot in the neighborhood?

Soundwave never knew what hit him, so the rest of the fight went unrecorded, thankfully. But Megatron put up a fight. I think the only reason we weren't scrapped was that Cliff had landed a shot under Megatron's shoulder, so he couldn't raise his cannon-arm.

But that didn't mean he couldn't punch with the other one. Cliff took a couple big ones to the face, and then Megatron grabbed him by the horns and threw him across the field. That really made Cliff mad. You don't mess with The Horns.

Megatron was lifting his dead arm with the other one, in order to fire, so I squawked out a warning. Cliff was turning to fire again, when he... Well, he tripped over me. I won't tell you what he called me as he fell.

Megatron swung his arm around, and managed to get off a shot at him; and because it was just that sort of day, he didn't miss. And Cliffjumper, of course, rolled over me to protect me from the blast.

Megatron stumped over to gloat. His armor was smoking. He wasn't happy. And everything he was muttering was directed at Cliffjumper. He'd forgotten all about me. Or maybe he'd never cared. But I was mad. So I shot him. Hey, my arm was free. And because sometimes life is like that, I hit him in the knee, and he stumbled.

He wasn't looking good, but he could still have killed us both, no problem. But then, without even raising his head to look, Cliffjumper powered up his ion cannon, and fired. He aimed by sound alone. And he hit Megatron in the face. Because he's Cliffjumper, I guess, and not me.

He winked at me as we heard Megatron howl. "Nice distraction, kid," he said. "But next time, try to let the bigger bots handle these 'Cons."

Megatron grabbed Soundwave, and tore off into the sky. And that's the last we saw of him. Till, you know, _now_...

I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this, Raf. I guess I just needed to tell somebody, and it seemed mean to say all this to anyone else. I mean, he drove me crazy. But I would have taken that energon blast for him. That's just the way it is, I guess. Now more than ever, I'm doing everything I can to be like Cliff.

We'll show them, Raf. One of these days, we'll show them. We may be little. We may be young. But there's a lot we can do yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Week Two**

Setting/Environment must drive plot

Characters: Constructicons

**Castles in the Sky**

I stare out over the city. My city. It is beautiful, if I do say so myself. My greatest creation to date. I smile a little in quiet pride, and watch it come to life.

The slanting light reflects and refracts between the sculpted planes of blue, green, and purple Praxxus Crystal, coloring the very atmosphere with tints of mingled color. No single facet has been left to chance; I planned each and every plane. Each structure functions in harmony with the others to create a stunning whole. Small, bright diodes flash and flare, highlighting the finials on some of the tallest buildings; their scintillating sparkle is dazzling to the optic. Long lines of neon run from base to crest of other shorter edifices, accentuating the ever-changing geometric dance of profile, contour, and outline.

I suppose that this place looks best from the surrounding plain, rising as it does out at the edge of the Sea of Rust to signal that there is yet some unspoiled beauty in this world. But I like to view it from above, as I am doing now; to witness how my meticulous calculations have achieved such orderly beauty. I made the buildings to seem as if they have grown out of the rusted plain, risen over eons as the crystal expanded upwards. But the flow of traffic and commerce is never impeded, thanks to my painstaking grid system. Roads and throughways twine through the tall clear structures like tendrils of light itself, so that travel itself becomes a joy. I look forward to living here.

"You know, Scrapper," says a voice, interrupting my reverie, "You really ought to move that skyscraper at A4/6Y a nanometer or two to the left."

I gape. "You can't be serious."

"Yes," Hook insists. "It has to be done. It's throwing off the whole design. I'm astonished that you didn't see it sooner. I would never have left such a glaring flaw this late in the construction phase."

I want to swear, but I mute my vocalizer. I count to 10, and slow my circ-fans. "Surely the slight problems with alignment is not worth moving an entire building a few nanometers?" I ask, though I know he will ignore the question.

"You'll hate yourself every time you look at it, if you don't," he replies over his shoulder, already heading out the door. "Do it, or you'll wish you had!"

The door slides shut. I stare at the city. My City.

Then I sigh, reach out a careful finger and thumb, pick up the tiny, fragile building, and move it precisely 2.749 nanometers to the left.

And the worst of it is, he's right. It does look better this way.

I open a channel and signal to my teams. "All right, you bots. Final modifications are complete. The project is a go. Meet at your assigned coordinates in 7.05 breems to begin construction.

I give one last glance at the tiny model before I leave. And I smile. It really will be the most beautiful city in all Cybertron. Once we get it built.


	3. Chapter 3

**Week Three**

Acting Out of Character

(Choose your own protagonist)

**Optimus Prime: Cowardice**

I am a coward. I am sending others to do a job for me, simply because I am not mech enough to do it for myself. I am sending them to do something which I know will leave a black stain on their sparks, a mission that will require them to be butchers of the innocent, the unlucky, and the gullible. It is an ugly job. And it has to be done. In my time as Autobot Commander, I have learned to my sorrow that there are times when right is cruel, and when justice is not merciful. Those are the times when I would gladly hand over my Command to the nearest able bot. And yet I cannot. This is my duty, and I choose to fulfill it. Yet I am incapable of performing the necessary action myself. And because of this weakness, I summon the Wreckers to my side with a spark filled with self-loathing. I am about to pass my own sin onto them.

There they stand before me, each mech at attention, each trying with his very uprightness to disguise the jumbled thoughts within him. There is the heady pulse of anticipation for the fight; a bit of foreboding (they are well aware that not all of them may return); and a guilty pleasure at the prospect of unchaining of the beast which strives within us all. They know that this will not be a _nice_ mission. And they know in the very iron of their bodies that they are the best mechs for such things. They are able to carry out necessary crimes, and afterwards let the burden of those crimes slip from their shoulders. They leave the burden. But never the memory. And this is why I trust them.

Letting go of burdens is a skill I've never had. If I were to go and cleanse this wretched site myself, I would be unfit to command for orns afterward. I would be plagued with nightmares for at least a vorn. Any appearance of strength I might achieve would soon be nullified by an extended period of infirmity. It is my enduring weakness. And as a leader, I cannot allow myself the luxury of fallibility.

So I send the Wreckers. This is what they are for, after all. They know it, and I know it. Springer gives me that little, knowing nod of his as they turn to go. I am grateful to them. And I am deeply, achingly ashamed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Week Five**

(Because Week Four's drabble earned a posting on its own, and will live forever in my heart. Look for _Groundpounding_ in my stories)

Assignment: Write a femme-centric story

A/N: This is, obviously, set on Cybertron and runs from just after the Ark and the Nemesis have left to just before the opening of the G1 series. 4. Million. Years. Alone. _Not knowing._ Yuck!

**Love Letters**

Pulsewave Communique A-114  
E1 to OP

Dearest, when you get this, would you please send me a quick pulse, just to let me know you're OK? I know this isn't the first time Megatron has surprised us with the speed of his response, but this is more than shock at the Nemesis appearing out of nowhere to pursue you. I just... have a bad feeling, that's all. Just a quick note, to reassure your worried bondmate?  
Love always,  
Elita

-  
Pulsewave Communique A-143  
E1 to OP

Still haven't heard anything, so I hope you're all right. My consolation is that Shockwave seems not to have heard anything either. Things have been a bit confused all around, as both factions wonder what to do in the unexpectedly long absence of their leaders. We're all treading carefully.  
Hoping you can get your communications array up soon,  
Love always,  
Elita

-  
Pulsewave Communique C-1337  
E1 to OP

I've checked out my own broadcast systems, but could find no flaws. I hope these messages are reaching you, wherever you are. I wish I could send you the love I feel.  
You need to know that things are getting pretty tight here now. It's been a long time since we heard from you or from Megatron, and since you two took the only long-range ships we had, there's no way for anyone else to go looking for new energon sources. Both sides are running low. We're starting to skirmish over supplies, but carefully. Each battle is costly in terms of energy that cannot be replaced, so each side is doubly fearful of a loss. I've placed Guardians at each of our energon depots, but I fear I may need to find some new strategy – the Guardians have never been fuel-efficient.  
Love always,  
Elita

-  
Pulsewave Communique H-2187  
E1 to OP

We're in desperate straits here now. It seems that Shockwave had started stockpiling energon long before Megatron even left. In fact, he may have even disobeyed orders, since I know we devoted all our energy to the Ark's launch, and Megatron, working to catch up, must have needed even more. But even Shockwave's reserves are dwindling. I've had to shut down the Guardians, but there haven't been many major raids on our stores in a couple of vorns. The entire planet is slowing down.  
I've hidden most of the remaining Autobots in an armored bunker deep beneath the surface. I hope they'll be safe there, because they were forced to shut down due to lack of fuel.  
Things are dark here, Optimus, and I don't mind admitting it.  
When are you coming home?  
Love always,  
Elita

-  
Pulsewave Communique M-16  
E1 to OP

Shockwave struck when we were weakest.  
I should have known he would. I should have known that calculating mech would not have passed up a chance like this.  
We lost almost all our remaining energon stores, and I'm afraid he – oh, Optimus, he found the bunker! He killed the mechs I put in stasis there. I promised them I would look after them, that I would keep them safe. He has no expression, but I could see his satisfaction nonetheless.  
It's just us girls and Alpha Trion, now, although I somehow think that no Decepticon could ever kill that old mech. He always seems to be one step ahead of everything...  
So why couldn't he have predicted this loss then? Why couldn't he have helped me save the lives of those poor mechs?  
And when are you coming home? I miss you so much it aches.  
Love always,  
Elita

-  
Pulsewave Communique T-478  
E1 to OP

Orion? Are you there?  
I tell myself that you must be, somewhere. I tell myself that I would feel it if you were dead.  
But it seems like we all are dead now – you, me, even the planet. Everything is dark and hopeless.  
But I will love you always, even in the dark.  
Elita


	5. Chapter 5

**_Week 6:_**

_Write a match in the fight pits of Kaon._

**Cat Fight.**

The mechanical cheers are uninspiring. I'm here to prove myself, and I know it. Everyone in the stands knows it. Everyone in the pit knows it. Which is why none of them are cheering for me. A femme against a Cassetticon – it's not the most riveting of match-ups, and even I'm ready to acknowledge it. I roll my shoulders, as the stomping and the cheering and the jeering crescendos around us. It's up to me to make this interesting. To merit his attention. Scrap that – I'll never earn his attention. But I hope to at least earn his interest. I'm here to prove that I can be a real Decepticon.

Ravage is hunching his own shoulders in turn, tearing at the turf of fine metal filings with his claws and growling his most menacing growl. I'm trying to think of a way to use these filings to my own advantage, rather than be crippled by them. They've been spread on purpose to keep the matches short – anyone who spends too much time rolling around on the ground will find their joints jammed with the sharp little scraplets...

The whistle sounds, and Ravage jerks me from my frantic thoughts by driving hard into my chest and slamming me to the floor. Not a good start...

I roll and buck as his claws rip into my back. I get a knee up into his chest, and spit a stream of hot lubricant into his optics. He yowls, blinded by the smear, and I manage to tear him loose.

I leap onto his back, and clamp an arm around his throat. "Here, kitty, kitty," I hiss, trying with all my might to twist his head around past the manufacturer's recommendations. I laugh in triumph when I hear the first connection pop.

He rolls, snarling a gargling roar. He's kicking his hind claws, trying to dislodge my legs from around his middle. He's also jamming me into those blasted shards on the floor...

Slag! I'm just not strong enough to manage those last crucial inches of torque! I shove him off to one side, and hope to spring free before he realizes I've given up on that tactic.

But my leg is trapped beneath his bulk. And I have forgotten about his teeth.

The second I let go of his neck, he twists around and latches onto my forearm. This is bad.

I wish I had teeth.

All my error messages are piling up on one another, trying to tell me what I already know – I'm about to lose an arm. And I don't dare let that happen.

Screaming, I kick frantically at his belly with my free foot. I hear the blessed crunch of plating giving way, but he's still not letting go of my arm. I also hear the crumple of my own armor and cydraulics. This is bad...

I tear into him with everything I have – foot, fingers, head. I feel his claws squeal against my body. And then my sharp-toed boot bursts through, into the wiring of his right rear hip. I give a feral yell, shove it in as far as I possibly can, and twist. Now it is Ravage's turn to scream.

He lets go, and rolls away, his engine racing. He's trying to hide it, but I can tell he's limping.

My own systems are in poor shape. My back is scored by the shavings on the floor, and I can feel my shoulder joints beginning to stick. I've somehow got to avoid going down again. Those fragging shards will do Ravage's dirty work for him, if I let them.

For the first time since this fight began, I notice the roaring of the watching crowd. They're chanting in rhythm, and they're chanting my name. "Mon-SOON! Mon-SOON! Mon-SOON! KILL!" I glance up at the Ruler's Box, and he meets my gaze. A mirthless smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, and he throws me a wry salute.

And then it all goes black.

Pawing at a face full of tiny metal shards, I lurch to one side, transform, and flee. Once again, I have forgotten Ravage. He may not have opposable thumbs, but he can still throw a handful of metal filings into my optics – especially when I'm too busy wondering if Megatron is watching me to remember to watch my opponent. I am so slagged...

I ram into a wall, and idle there, listening with all my might. The crowd is rabid, screaming for my death. I listen as their screaming rises, hoping it can signal to me the approach of my enemy...

As the crowd reaches a fevered pitch, I peel out away from the wall in what I can only guess is Ravage's direction. By some lucky roll of the dice of Fate, I clip him. Without pausing to exult, I shift into reverse and roar back over him.

But we were matched for weight. I'm not like Megatron – I can't crush my rivals beneath my tires. I smash into Ravage. But he's far from finished.

Disoriented for an instant, I feel the big black Cat land full upon my chassis, and his paw breaks through my windshield. I howl as he rips through my instrument panels. I try to transform. But my cog is jammed by those Pit-spawned shards, and I'm stuck halfway between vehicle and bot. I roll and heave. But there's only one way this can go now.

I spare a thought for my sister Chromia as Ravage's teeth tear out my motor relays. Paralyzed beneath his claws, I hope there will be mercy.

But mercy is contrary to the Decepticon ideal.

_Yeah. This was depressing as slag to write. Monsoon is from My Happy(?) Little World, in which all you know of her is that she wanted to join the Decepticons, but was killed by them during her training phase. Perhaps this is how. Actually, I imagine she wasn't killed in the match itself, but was beaten up afterward by other Cons for her failure in the ring. Yeah. Such nice guys. Pardon me, I have to go punch Megatron now._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: The assignment this week was to write a prank, but not by or on the usual fanon suspects. _

**Mischief Managed**

"You know, I really thought this would be easier." Gears unhappily surveyed the buckets of glittering confetti and glue he had collected. "Sideswipe always makes this kind of thing look so simple."

"I told you it wouldn't work," sighed Huffer. "But not even you wanted to listen to me."

Gears was depressed. He'd really tried to get into the spirit of this ridiculous Earth holiday, the purpose of which, like most things here, he had never understood. But just this once, he'd thought he'd make an effort, show he was willing to participate, because even though they were far away from home – _Especially_ now that they were far away from home – these Autobots were his friends.

Why Huffer had decided to get involved was anybody's guess. Gears wondered morosely now if the little yellow truck had just tagged along to watch him fail, in order to get in another 'I told you so.' He sighed. Well, he wasn't going to give up quite yet.

"You said something about balancing these buckets on top of open doors," Huffer complained, "But that won't work here in the Ark."

Gears considered at his diminutive friend for a moment. "No..." he mused. "But I bet you could work up something." He gave the little bot a rare smile. It wasn't often that anyone found something positive to say about Huffer – the mech was just so darn annoying. But Gears had a good heart, and hated to see anyone so down all the time. Especially since he knew all too well how his comrade felt, stuck here on this dirty, Primus-forsaken organic planet.

"Come on," he urged. Couldn't we hang the buckets, and you could rig some sort of trip-wire?"

Huffer sighed. "Yes," he said, sounding more than usually put-upon. "I could 'rig up' something like that during my recharge cycle, Gears!"

"Then let's get to it!" Gears replied. "The sooner we get this finished, the sooner we can be through with this ridiculous 'April Fool' day. Just tell me what you need me to do."

* * *

A few breems later, the two bots stood back and surveyed their work.

"Not bad, Huffer," Gears conceded. "I think now we might be able to excuse ourselves from this insanity for a few orbital cycles.

"I hope so!" the other minibot replied with feeling. "I hate this so-called holiday!"

"Now all we need to do is get one of the others to walk through this door," said Gears.

The two of them blinked at one another for a klik or two.

"I'll just go find somebody then, shall I?" Gears said heavily. He started forward.

"Wait!" Huffer called out in alarm. He started after his friend, grabbing at an arm to pull him back from the thin tripwire...

* * *

Cliffjumper followed the trail of goop and glitter warily. He knew that more than one Autobot was probably up to no good around this time, and he was not about to get caught up in one of their foolish schemes. He scanned the walls and ceilings carefully for any hidden traps. But he could find nothing. There was only this long, sad trail of bright confetti and drops of glue.

He followed it all the way to the common room. And blinked his optics in astonishment.

At the bar, sitting mournfully on stools much too tall for them, his fellow minibots Huffer and Gears were sipping huge cubes of high-grade energon. And they were both covered in a sparkly, gloopy mess.

He approached them with some care. "Who did this to you?" he demanded. "I'll find them for you, and make them wish they'd never come off the assembly line!"

The two bots looked at each other. "We... don't know, Cliff." Gears gave a sudden grin, and grabbed the red bot by the arm. "But come here and give us a hug..."


	7. Chapter 7

**Week 8: Human and Transformer**

_A/N: All hail stream of consciousness writing!_

* * *

Ha-Hee's Journal Entry # four-bazillion-and-two: March 21, 2011

So as seems to be the norm with topics that at first sound easy, I had the devil of a time coming up with something to write for this week's drabble. You see, I find most canon humans of TF-dom boring. And the ones I might find something to write about just weren't tweaking my muse at all. I laughed at the thought of writing an Alexis & Starscream drabble: it'd have love, angst, and talking-in-rooms aplenty. But what more is there to say? And I've been away from Armada too long to remember the voices of the characters accurately. I came very, very close to just calling up G1 Starscream from the All-Spark purgatory he resides in currently. I even wrote out a few starts to that story. But it was just the same old same old emosauce I always write. Time went on, and in the end, I had to post the new topic without having completed a drabble yet. Oh, the shame and sorrow. And frustration. You'd think this would be easy! You'd think I could at least write something about Prime showing up at Cor's house. But I feel awkward writing real people. I don't like the position of puppetmaster. So it's up to you to write something like that, Cor.

Tonight is drop-dead time: I must get something written and posted NOW. I have only two ideas to work from: I'm going to write myself, because I can't seem to care about or wrap my head around any other characters. (I'll be much more understanding of human Mary-Sues after this exercise!) And I want to go flying. It's all Irina's fault.

So I'm going to go find Skywarp. This should be interesting.

Continuity? I have no idea. Continuity be fragged.

"I like that sentiment."

"Oh. Hi, 'Warp. You know, it generally ticks me off when people write Thundercracker or some other bot calling you that, but I seem incapable of calling anyone by their full-"

"You talk too much!" There follows a staccato rumble of inaudible but plainly aggrieved swearing, as he drops down into jet-mode with an extra measure of angry clang. "You said you wanted to go flying?"

I try desperately not to squeeble, and not just because a transformer, albeit an unwilling one, is offering me a ride. I _love_ to fly. And I've been hankering for it for years now. Cloud and ocean – they are my drugs of choice. When I can't write about transformers, that is. I clamber into Skywarp's cockpit. And snicker to myself, of course.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just- Cockpit. Nothing. You've got seatbelts, right?" I start looking around, trying to make sure I'm strapped in tight. I love crazy amusement park rides, but only as long as I feel secure.

"This is one of those human dooble entenders, isn't it?"

I sporfle. "_Dooble entenders_. Dude, that's awesome. I gotta remember that."

"Oh baby, oh baby, I need to feel you inside me?"

I choke. "You haven't been reading human porn, have you?"

"Slag, yeah. That stuff's _hilarious_."

I sigh. "Yes, I imagine it is." And suddenly, I find I have to ask... "Hey, uh, 'Warp- there aren't any, you know, sweet spots in here that I ought to, you know, leave alone, or anything?"

When the jet you're in heaves an exasperated sigh, it is an event, let me tell you. I panic and grab hold of my shoulder-straps. "Do you want to fly with me, or don't you?" he asks.

"Yes!" I squeak. "Please! Please like _biskit!_"

"What does that even _mean_?" He leaves the earth with a _whoomp_, not at all like a terran jet taxiing down a runway, and I'm plastered to the seat. But I hear him mutter something about humans and their babbling. As we near the top of the ascent, I can also hear myself. I'm shouting in pure glee.

"_Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!This-is-awesome-you-have-no-idea-I-can't-believe..." _My weight decreases to almost nothing as we slow, and hang in the empty air for a long moment. "Look at the-!" I begin. But then we start to fall. And Skywarp is laughing.

"Ohhh my slagging heck what are you doing holy craaa_aaaAAAPP!"_

Chortling in undisguised evil glee, he tears down through the atmosphere, and I swear I can feel my brain bubbling out through my ears and eyeballs. "You know we humans are breakable, right?" I scream. But of course he's not listening. This is a test of some sort. It must be. Or perhaps, he's just being a jerk. Yeah. He's probably just trying to get me to black out. "FRAG YOU, SKYWARP!" I holler. I grab the seatbelt shoulder-straps in a death-grip, and try to keep my face from melting off.

I'm certain that I'm gonna die. I know it in my bones. We hit the ocean at Mach-14,982 or something like that, and blow a huge hole in it just from the jetwash as Skywarp rips back up out of the dive. I think there must be some sort of magical Cybertronian anti-grav-majigger keeping me from turning into absolute mush at this point. And I'm pretty certain that the only reason he'd activate it is to keep his own darn cockpit clean. "COCKPIT, COCKPIT, COCKPIT!" I scream. It's as good a swear-word as any, right now.

When I open my eyes again, we're cruising along at jetliner-altitude, the patchwork-quilt of fields in some midwestern state drifting in serene and boring sameness beneath us. "I hate you so hard right now," I tell him.

He gloats. I can tell he's gloating, just by the way he's flying. He's fragging _grinning_ to himself. "Never let it be said that I don't know how to impress the ladies," he declares. "But more often than not, they find I'm more than they bargained for."

"I'm gonna find a whole slag-ton of horrible pictures of you and Thundercracker on DA and send them to him with a loving note from _you_, and _then_ I'm gonna find _more_ pictures of you and... I dunno, maybe blinking _Sunstreaker_, and send him _those_, and _then_ I'm gonna-"

"Please. You don't think Little Boy Blue and I haven't found them all and laughed our afts off at them already?" He pauses. "Really? Slash pictures? Is that honestly the worst you can do?"

"Frag off." I'm pouting like a 12-year-old, and I don't care. "Why is it that I always pick the adversarial ones?" I whine, to no one in particular.

He snorts. "You'd rather hang with Bumblebee?"

"Primus, no."

"Why? He'd be bubbling over with the absence of adversarial...ness."

At which point, of course, I start feeling compelled to defend him. "He was fairly awesome in the first movie..." I smack my forehead. "Why are we even having this conversation? Let's do some flying, ok? There's all this sky to play around in! Show me what you got. Loop-de-loops, barrel-rolls, the lot. Slag, if you can take me up in space, that would be blinking _awesome._ And I'd love to find some big old clouds to mess around in, too. Sound like any fun to you?"

"Hell yeah."

"Shh! You can't swear! This is supposed to be a PG story!"

He swings into a series of aerobatics, laughing and uttering string of ribald profanities. Some of them are so delicious, I lament my unwillingness to repeat them.

"So this is what outer space looks like."

"Yeah."

"It's beautiful. People always say that. But it is."

"Yeah." He heaves a long, contented sigh from all his vents. I have no idea how this farms* in space, but I don't care. I'm not dead or dying or even very bruised. And despite the occasional scream of terror, I've been having the time of my life.

"Hey Skywarp?"

"Uhn?"

"I know this'll scare the pee outta me, but I was wondering... could you fly me around in robot mode?"

"What? You don't even _have_ a robot-"

"_No..."_ I sigh. "I mean, you transform, and hold onto me while you fly around using your thrusters..."

He doesn't say anything.

"Sort of slowly, so I can breathe and stuff," I persist. "But..." I sort of worm down into the seat, trying to absorb flight-ness from him. He's so slagging lucky. I wish I could fly so bad. "I've never even had those flying dreams that everyone talks about," I blurt out.

He gets it. I can tell. And I'm grateful that I don't have to try to explain it any further.

"I don't know if I could go slowly enough for you," he tells me. And I have a sad face. "But I'll tell you what." He huffs, and says, "I'll let you take the controls for a bit."

"Really? I'm-" All of a sudden, I'm crying. It never seems to take much. I wipe a sleeve across my face. "Thank you, 'Warp," I say. "I've wanted to be able to do this for... ages. And I don't care if it's only a nano-klik to you guys; our life is all we have, and we measure time in terms of percentages of it."

I pull myself together. "So. Tell me how to work this thing," I quip. "Back is up and forward is down, but where are the go-faster and the 'Stop!' pedals?"

We go flying.

And I have never been so happy.

We even find some fluffy clouds.

The End

* "Farm": verb; _to function in a logical manner_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I'd thought that I'd write more of a story to this. But you know what? I think I like it exactly the way it is. (Yes, my fanon is showing. And I don't care.)

**Jazz vs. Mirage**

"Turn down that awful racket!" Jazz begged, his hands clasped tightly over his audials.

"Says the mech who blasts _The Misfits_ and _Cold Slither_ every chance he gets," Mirage retorted icily. "You have no idea what real music is."

"I know for certain that it ain't this caterwauling!" the saboteur yelped. "This stuff sounds like a couple turbofoxes in heat! How can you possibly like it?"

"For your information, this 'caterwauling' as you call it is a form of Earth music known as Opera. And it sounds nothing like turbofoxes in heat. I should know."

Jazz thought about making a pertinent comment on that, but decided to let it pass (for now). His processor was too boggled to handle repartee.


End file.
